


Love in all Forms

by bolide_belle, GlowAmber



Category: Tangled (2010), Tangled: The Series (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlor, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dehydration, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Multi, Self-Harm, Starvation, Tangled Ship Week, Wedding Fluff, Weddings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2019-06-18 00:27:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15473445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bolide_belle/pseuds/bolide_belle, https://archiveofourown.org/users/GlowAmber/pseuds/GlowAmber
Summary: No matter where and when, they love each other. The universes may change, the time, the settings; they will always be best together.[From the Tangled Discord's OC channel, it's ship week! OCs x OCs and OCs x Canon]Now Playing: Modern AU Varian/Othelia





	1. DAY 1: HANDCUFFED [VegaXMireya]

The sun is brutal out here and it never seems to stop, pounding down like the waves on either side of them. Vega grimaces, her stomach still heaves even though she has nothing left in her to come up, not even bile. Her lips are chapped dry, cracking and split with blood, but it's nothing compared to the way her muscles burn and her skin bubbles red from exposure.

She’s endured worse than this, honestly. Initiation had her screaming for days, but she is older now and can grit her teeth to suffer through in silence.

No, what makes this truly torture is that one of her wrists has a thick iron cuff on it that has chaffed away her skin and left it sore and raw. The chain from it connects to her worst nightmare, and Vega cannot ignore it for all that she tries.

“Hey, storm eyes, think we’re going to get water today? Been like… two days… maybe…”

The woman’s voice is hoarse and still somehow sweet, pretty enough that it grates and soothes her nerves. She can hear the rasp in it, they’re both dehydrated and she knows she can’t stand up or do much thinking or else she’ll faint, but its still got a lilt from the woman’s home country. She doesn’t have to open her eyes to know that she’s being watched, lazily, that her companion is leaned back against one of the railings like a painting instead of a prisoner.

“Shut up.” It hurts her throat to talk, like she swallowed little shards of sand, but she manages if only for the dry wheezed laugh to her right. Vega risks opening her eyes, and oh, it goes black at the edges and she blinks several times, swaying where she sits, before she looks over at her.

It’s hell being handcuffed to the most gorgeous woman she has ever seen. She can hear the Lady’s voice in her head, scolding her, chiding her, and she flinches but cannot stop staring at how the woman’s short cropped black hair manages to frame her face. She looks hollow, now, but Vega can imagine her full of food and life, her tan cheeks flush and her dark eyes lit. Most painful, she can imagine how soft her lips would be and that makes her agonize, makes her close her eyes and sink back against the railing as her world spins wildly around her.

Torture isn’t being on this prison barge-- torture is being on this prison barge with Mireya at her side. 

“Storm eyes, I’m thirsty.” 

Vega is, too, in more ways than one and her heavily freckled cheeks burn for more than just the sun’s glare. Mireya is a test of her patience, of her faith, of her dedication-- she is grateful she’s too exhausted and hungry to do more than idly think. Even that is a test of her willpower because her mind fogs constantly, and not in the pleasant way from the Circle.

She knows her time is running out, that the more dehydrated she gets from the sun and the lack of water the more likely she is to end up thrown overboard. She’s already seen it happen to a few prisoners. The irony of Mendel not wanting to kill her and only put her in prison for her crimes doesn’t escape her, because instead of a quick death, he has left her to suffer. There’s no telling when the guards will forget to give water, to feed them. She could die tomorrow, or in a week, or two months. 

And she knows it will be agonizing. 

When the guards walk by in the late noon with their bucket of water and a ladle, Vega tries to quell her hopes and still manages to feel crushed when they walk past her and Mireya. She’d cry if she had the tears, but she doesn’t even have enough liquid in her mouth to swallow proper anymore. Mireya doesn’t react, however, and she looks over dizzily at her shackle mate.

She had sounded clear, earlier, still capable of thoughts, and now Vega feels the pit in her stomach widen til it could swallow her whole. There’s no mistake the glaze to her gorgeous eyes, the slack of her face-- if she doesn’t get water, soon, Mireya will be thrown overboard in the morning. 

Trying to open her mouth doesn’t work, her throat is too dry and she hacks, bending forward. The motion makes her almost black out, she’s moved too quickly, but at the same time-- she feels resistance from the cuff. Mireya shifts, just a little, and she hits back a sob. Water… Water… She needs to get her something to drink.

Before, the guards had been watching her too much. Back when her mind was sharp, she could do nothing without getting hit or shook about. Now that they see her weak and dying, they’ve left her alone, and it’s a mistake she is so grateful for. It takes her several tries to work a cut into her arm, and even longer for her world to stop spinning long enough for her to try and focus.

Her thoughts crawl so slowly and it feels like she’s wading through quicksand trying to remember the right things… but she dips her finger in her blood and begins to shakily paint on the wood floor. Even in this state, she can manage a perfect circle. Even like this, even if it takes ages, she can write the right runes.

She leans back to study it and takes her time picking through it, mostly because she’s having a hard time focusing on the lines. Blood loss coupled with dehydration and starvation has left her on the verge of falling unconscious but it is a testament to her strength that she puts her palm in the center of her spell circle and closes her eyes. 

Vega feels the magic pour through her, ripped from the air and the water and her blood, to charge the circle-- 

She feels her body begin to buckle and tremble as the blackness rushes up to greet her and drag her under-- 

But god, she feels the air turn cold and the sky darken, first, and the smell of rain swarms her senses as she finally collapses against Mireya in a boneless heap.

\-----

It feels like a miracle that she wakes up, at all, later. She is warm all around, borderline painfully so, and there is pressure on her back and arms that hurts so sharply that she gasps when awareness hits her. The noises sound far away as her consciousness is still coming back to her, but something soft is against her cheek and something tickles her forehead.

Her eyes feel crusty as she tries to open them, but a hand that is calloused and soft all at once cups her jaw and tilts her head back before something presses to her lips. She opens her mouth to ask questions and almost chokes when water spills into her. It’s only now that she realizes she doesn’t feel so cottony, that she can actually feel the life in her limbs and her thoughts do not crawl.

“Go slow, storm eyes, and drink some more.” 

Oh she knows that voice. Vega sinks back into her, feeling the pull of her wrist now as Mireya palms more water into her mouth. She would like to yank away from her, because this is too intimate, but at the same… At the same time, there’s so much comfort in the pain and the softness of the other woman’s body. She’s drowsy enough that, while she swallows and takes in the water, she can ignore the whispers in her Lady’s voice telling her how sinful and wretched she is.

She’s already failed so much already. What’s another slide? Vega can repent, later, when she escapes and takes Mendel and the rest back to the Lady. No doubt she will be forgiven for her failings, no doubt she’ll be welcomed back-- but for now…

Vega drifts lazily in Mireya’s embrace and drinks from her hand slow, taking her time to rehydrate. She peeks in between drinks to find the sky is still stormy, that there is a boot next to them full of water that she is cupping handfuls from. Everyone around them looks more alive, and the guards look... grumpy. 

When the woman stops coaxing her with water, she takes her by the wrist and presses a little kiss to her still wet palm. Behind her, above her, all around her, she feels Mireya and feels her startle at the motion, and then relax with her cheek to the top of Vega’s head. She risked her life for someone, for once, who was not her Lady and she doesn’t know how to feel about it. Vega knows without a doubt she could have killed herself with that spell, given how weak and bad off she was, but she also knows in the depths of herself that she wouldn’t take it back. 

“Want to talk about how you saved my life, storm eyes?”

There’s something knowing and mischievous in Mireya’s words, like the rain has brought back her fight, too, and Vega shifts a little to be closer to her. Her head tilts back so she can stare up at her, admire her again. Every angle of her face, every line to her lashes; Vega has never known anyone so beautiful or captivating. 

The Lady enthralled her as a child but no one has ever snared her like this, made her heart flutter and her insides twist. Girls have always been pretty, but Mireya… Mireya is a goddess given flesh and Vega wants to worship her. That’s blasphemy, no one should ever come before the Lady in Vega’s life, and yet... 

She still can’t find it in herself to care because there is her hand on her cheek and Vega tilts her head into her touch, starved for affection. How long as she wanted to earnestly be held and comforted like this, by someone who knows who she is and has seen how much of a mistake she is, and still reaches for her in spite of all that?

There is too much she is pinning on her, she knows, Mireya is only a woman. A gorgeous jaw droppingly stunning woman, but just a woman. She feels the burn inside her, the fires trying to claw free, yet its new and different to her. Vega feels like she has control of it, for once, as she hooks a hand against the back of her shackle mate’s neck and pulls her down to risk it, to dare-- She kisses her solidly, and her world sets itself ablaze when she is kissed back.

It’s heady and invigorating; her lightheadedness might be from her recent near death experience or it could be from the feel of Mireya’s lips coaxing more kisses from her. She’s never kissed a woman, before, and she doesn’t want to stop now. If she is more than better, if she is perhaps the best and most talented, maybe the Lady will overlook her sins and failings like she overlooked Mendel’s for so long. She once swore she would do anything for the Lady, but now, she will do anything to keep this.

She pulls away, at last, searching her companion’s face and finding the same dizzy joy in Mireya’s eyes. There’s a light, there, gentle and sweet and all encompassing. She wants to weep, she wants to dance, but she curves her lips into a smirk and whispers, instead.

“...I want to talk about taking the ship over.” 

And that light in Mireya’s eyes turns into a blaze, and Vega has never loved fire before this moment.


	2. DAY 1- HANDCUFFED [AttilaXKarina]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Separatists' poisoner has some issues with her current company.

This was beyond ridiculous to her. Karina focused on whipping the cream as best she could, one arm wrapped around the big bowl to keep it steady while the other beat the cream mercilessly. Attemptively, at least. It was difficult to do with her usual skill since her wrist was heavy. 

Not for the first time, she sighed to herself and tapped her whisk clean. 

Just to her right, the Coronan thug stood and put off so much body heat she was surprised her cream wasn't ruined. A bigger surprise was that his body odor hadn't curdled it or made her hurl, yet. 

All she wanted to do was bake, today, and yet the Saoirse had gotten them found out. The princess’ solution was they all be watched and paired with someone who could keep them in line. Apparently a 6’5” thug was the answer to the 5’ flat poisoner. Karina would normally be flattered, but since taking up a cover in Corona? She found a niche and just enjoyed her pastries.

“I can't do this.” 

She dropped her hands to either side of her bowl, feeling the shackle rattle and clunk down with her motions. It wasn't enough he was here, she had to be shackled to him. It was insulting, they could have at least--

Karina looked sharply up at the helmeted man and then yanked forward, “Follow.” He grunted in surprise at her strength, she was little and just tugging him around. 

“Where are you going?” He had such a soft gentle voice that she should have been surprised, but she just kept pulling him out the kitchen door and into the grassy yard beyond. She only stopped outside the well, staring at the water below and then at him. 

“Take your helmet off.”  
“Uhhh…”

Karina climbed into the slippery lip of the well, putting herself over his height and jerking his arm upwards. “You smell like kitchen waste.” She said, plainly, and reached for his helmet to yank it off. He tried to jerk back, started, but she clung to one of his horns and hung there. 

She had nothing to say as she hung there, perplexed and silent, his arm wrenched up and her body dangling right there. It had been already a weird enough day and he still smelled awful, but he was a rather solid figure. She knew from experience he was a quiet man, yet she expected him to say something considering what a fool she was being. 

Instead, he bent forward until she gently touched down on the well lip again. Why was her face burning? It had to be from embarrassment, there was no other reason she was so red. It wasn't that his rough large hands were careful with coaxing her grip off his helmet, or that he was patiently handling her idiocy without complaint. 

And it definitely wasn't how his arms had bulged when he reached out to put those hands on her waist, lift her, and put her back on solid ground. 

Karina was a quiet stewing mess the rest of her work day.


	3. DAY 2: MODERN AU [VarianXOthelia]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modern au and renfaire for Varian/Othelia

Lots of people come to her stall, and Othelia can tell with one glance which catalogue to put out for them to browse. Perhaps it’s rude to judge her clients by their attire, but stereotyping exists for a reason. 

The people who lean towards fantasy, or are straight up fantasy, always complain and correct her accurate work. ‘There are spelling errors,’ they argue as they shove the book at her, and she will sigh and pass them the other catalogue. It’s frustrating to her.

The people who wear period accurate, however, do not like her ‘modern’ approach to copying and will take great offense if they see the former catalogue. When they are done spitting and ranting, she will hand them the original portfolio of her work and they will ooh and ahh over her painstaking work while insulting the other one.

So now, she keeps both catalogues at her side and waits and, yes, she judges her clients.

This is all important information, because right now, Othelia is judging someone. He’s perhaps a little younger than her, it’s hard to tell, but his hair is a bright stunning teal that frames his face. She could care less about his features, though she does distantly note he is aesthetically pleasing, and more focuses on the glitter on his cheeks and the swipe of eyeliner over his lids in a dark blue that just brightens the blue of his eyes. From behind the long locks on either side of his face, she can see prosthetic elf ears expertly applied. This all, combined with the large set of iridescent teal wings hanging off his back, would solidly put him in the first category.

Her fingers itch to grab the book, but she pauses. His doublet and undershirt, as well as his gloves and leggings… even his boots… Those are all period accurate. The stitching is fine, expert even, and the material is quality but quite emphatically that of the proper era. Even the colors, and the snug fit of his trousers…

So she hesitates and watches him as he looks around a few of the hanging pages she has just finished and left to dry, head tilted in confusion. 

“Would you like to see my wares?” Othelia must have startled him, because he jumps. Everyone is tall to her but he looks taller than most to her when he rounds to look at her in surprise. She frowns and leans forward, knowing the stall shadows her a bit so that her paper will not be sun bleached, but she is not invisible in her workstation.

“Oh, uh…” And he fumbles, his cheeks pink, a finger itching the side of his face, “Yes! Yes, please, that’d be great!” 

He doesn’t use slang, so she still hesitates, unsure, before deciding that he probably just bought the outfit off someone because ‘it looked cool.’ So she lifts up the incorrect catalogue and walks it over to him, really feeling his height when she holds it up to him. He must be a good fourteen or fifteen inches taller than her.

He smiles at her and, ah, he has freckles and buck teeth, that's oddly charming, “Thank you!” 

Othelia nods at him, trying to back off to her corner again. She doesn't really enjoy interacting with people, she would like to have her assistant run the booth. Still, they need breaks so she must do this. While he flips through her catalogue, she retreats to her workstation again. Ink already stains her fingers, but she just flicks her phone back open to a page and dips her quill in the well. 

She is several words in when a muttering disturbs her work, and she sighs internally, clutching her quill. She doesn't want to look up, though the man clearing his throat pointedly tells her she has no choice. 

“Yes?”

He is looking at her and looks… disappointed? Confused? She puts her fingers to her cheek and ignores the wetness of ink smearing on her skin. 

“I don't mean to be rude, but, uh, can I see the work of whoever did these pages? These are… Inaccurate.” He gestures to her drying pages and she lifts a brow, feeling a little embarrassed. She guessed wrong. It doesn't happen often and she is old enough to admit her mistakes. Still there is a burn of irritation that he assumes the work is of two different people, there is skill in both methods of her work. 

“There is only one scribe here,” she tells him and she can see his eyes dart up and down and linger on her ink stains. When he colors a little and his shoulders pull in sheepishly, she knows he has realized his own mistake. Fair is fair. “I apologize, sir, you didn't seem the type for this catalogue.”

“What do you mean?”

His voice raises and he honestly looks confused when she gives him another close look over, examining his fae attire. And then he colors again and looks over his shoulder where her eyes pointedly rest on his wings. 

“Oh! Oh no, no no, this isn't my usual outfit! My sister wanted us to do a fairy theme this year? It was her idea, I'm normally a blacksmith!” 

He's very animated and exaggerated, she notices, and almost feels too big for her stall. With a critical look, because Othelia has never been one to be too kind or friendly (She's been told it's one of her many failings,) she flips open the book for him. 

Immediately, he is interested and scanning through pages. It's almost too easy to distract him. He seems to dive into things head first, eager to know or sate curiosity. What an oddball. 

The noises he makes while he scans are not the usual fare, either. He talks to himself under his breath with no insults to her other work, or on her work at all. Merely makes comments on the contents of the letters and documents she has painstakingly hand copied time and time again. 

She is curious enough she lingers, watching, only to see his head snap back as he rereads a passage. He goes from idle, Othelia supposes, to alert. 

“This letter… Are these all copied from actual documents?”

It is her error that she nods in the affirmative when he looks at her and his jaw goes slack. “This letter is from the Anli Duchy about the Marston incident, this changes history! How did you get it?” He sounds too excited and she half scowls to herself because this is what she gets for working with assistants. 

“That was an error,” she informs him and swipes the book away. The copy is slid out of its protective sheeting before she casually rips it up. He's agape with horror, staring at her like she's committed a crime. 

“You.. That was just only a copy, right? Do you have the original or know where it is??” He leans over the stall table while she flips the catalogue to face herself and go over the contents. Several pages were her own personal copies and he makes noises of protest, his fingers flexing like he wants to take her book, as she strips them out and rips them up. 

“Those weren't supposed to be in here, my apologies.” She can make new copies later, when she can make sure they stay private. 

Othelia jumps when he goes to grab her wrist, but stops short, “The originals should be in a museum!“

She knows that. They say history is written by the victor, but she knows the truth. Her family is a long line of scribes and history was written by their hands, the ink still runs in her blood. If you treated the scribes wrong, as the Anli did, well… You deserved to fade into obscurity. 

“Those belong in my personal collection and nowhere else.”

“I can pay, my university would pay a lot! For just a copy!” 

She isn't budging, not yet. It would be a lie if money isn't tempting since she has student loans to pay and there is a rare first edition book she has been eyeing for some time. Really, she longs more for another prize in her collection than to pay off her student loans. Call her greedy, but loans will wait. These books and papers are history that she doesn't want to slip through her fingers. 

And he only wants copies… 

“Not for sale.” She says firmly, just to see how he goes ashen and then brightens with determination. Othelia likes that he doesn't just give up, she wants him to fight, after all. If he thinks she doesn't want to sell copies, he'll try for a higher price. 

She watches him march away and leans over her counter to admire him. He was aesthetically pleasing, she had noted, earlier, but now she takes a moment to actually take him in. He speaks on a cellphone he retrieves from his doublet, animated, serious. He gesticulates and paces back and forth, his brows pushed down and the angle of his face making his nose seem sharper. 

It's a nice face, actually. It seesaws back and forth between harmless and dangerous. Between cute to handsome. She likes the duality in his features and finds she likes how he marches back to her steal with fire in his grin. 

“I need to authenticate the originals.” He tells her, and Othelia feels the dry ink on her cheek, rubbing at it.

“I haven't agreed to anything.” 

He hastens on, “My professor will pay ten grand for a copy of that letter, if I can authenticate it.”

And that's more than she expected, but she knows the original would go for near half a million. More if she sold the entire discussion. It feels a little flirty the way she shifts and leans, scratching still at the ink. Not her intention, yet there is something fun about having something he wants this much. Something amusing about bartering with a man dressed as a fairy for her work. 

“What if I told you I had the original letters, all four, including the Marston replies?”

As she hoped, his jaw drops and he is a mixture of horrified and awestruck. She casually adds, “My family was employed by the Anlis as their scribe. I have the original drafts to all their letters, the replies they received, and copies of all letters they sent.”

She feels the smile on her face and relishes the starstruck look on his, so few people would appreciate this. “My family believed in meticulously documenting everything. I have a large collection of historical documents, thanks to their work for the Anlis and other families. ” 

“Varian Grieves,” he says in a wobbly voice, holding his hand out to her. She shakes with the knowledge she has him and will have a new rare book. 

“Othelia Graf.”


End file.
